Night Market
by KatSol
Summary: Shopping with Scott on the Mainland is always interesting, but things don't always go according to his precisely laid-out plans. It figures! One shot, just for a break.


_**Things have been so intensely stressful around here that in between all the struggles, I did the only thing I could do to keep some semblance of normalcy in my life: I went shopping with the boys (typical, right?) Happy New Year everyone, and let this new decade bring in a better life and far happier times for all of us – it's been a long, long haul.**_

Night Market

Strings of old filament lights dangled over a sea of improvised booths fogged with cook smoke and incense. Happy touristy cries and the distant crackle of waves staccatoed from a torch-lit beach as vendors insistently called their wares over the heads of likely clients rushing from stall to stall hunting a good bargain. Three young men sauntered through the pleasantly busy throng and paused at a booth crammed with a miscellany of antique airplane parts. A hurried discussion ensued, and then two moved on to trail a pair of nubile _Fresh off the Boat_ girls skimpily dressed in bright Hawaiian sarongs, leaving behind the third and tallest behind to make a purchase.

Scott watched his brothers disappear into the multi-colored crowd, shrugged, and bent back to the task at hand: digging through a box of vintage aviation altimeters. Tonight wasn't for sport, it was dedicated to acquisition, and somewhere in the jumbled mess beneath his hands he knew he'd find the exact instrument to match those already mounted and tested on his half-built P40 Tomahawk's control panel…

And he found one towards the bottom of the box. Scott pulled it out carefully and held it up to one of the lights for closer inspection. _'Smoke damaged yeah, but no sign of salt-water; some corrosion, but I can fix that.'_

Scott smiled briefly with immense satisfaction, then schooled his features to a nonchalant blank as he waved the beaming vender over for a good old-fashioned session of intense haggling—

Something he enjoyed almost as much as renovating ancient aircraft.

But behind his back, out in the bustling crowd of the central avenue, eager eyes watched the tall American closely from a guarded distance; when money changed hands between the stranger and the bowing vender, the eager eyes of the watcher grew even brighter in the market's antiquated glow.

First goal reached, impatient to move on to his next, Scott nonetheless stood back and waited courteously while the vender set his prize in a box, wrapped it in recycled grocery paper, and skillfully knotted it with bleached cotton string for easy carrying. An exchange of polite bows, indicating that the transaction was complete, and Scott moved quickly on towards another vender who specialized in tools dating back to pre World War Two, a rare commodity but necessary for his particular hobby…

But an unexpected, sharp, and insistent nudge in the center of his back brought him up short and to an abrupt halt. His years in the service and his travels around the world immediately identified the thing pressing into his shirt as a gun, probably a Walther PPK, and worse, the wielder was nervous; he could feel the barrel quivering ever so slightly against his spine, and could smell the scent of perspiration coming from his assailant.

Calmly, Scott gestured that he understood what was going on, held his arms and hands harmlessly away from his body, and headed for the shadowy tent he was getting pushed towards—

But the moment he stepped inside he spun around fast and angrily jammed his index finger into the barrel. "Saw this in a cartoon once, figured I'd give it a shot. No pun intended." Scott eyed his assailant and frowned. "Assuming I've pissed you off… Oh hell, tell me you're just hungry, not a damn addict."

His potential thief was no more than 14 years old and the boy looked severely undernourished and ill. By his reactions, Scott could tell he couldn't speak English, had no marital training at all, but was desperate for a quick monetary gain. Shocked at the turn of events though, the boy held his ground, lifted a bone-thin finger and thrust a dirt-encrusted nail at Scott's pocket while he pressed the muzzle of his quivering gun deeper against Scott's knuckle.

"Ow! I get it, okay?" Scott stubbornly hung on to the box dangling from his arm and kept his finger pressed into the muzzle of the boy's gun, but slowly reached his right hand down for his wallet; sweat was beading the boy's temples and shining above his lips, but the tremulous set of his jaw held an underlying tension of grim determination. "Just keep it calm," Scott continued in an even voice, "But don't make a habit outta this. Even though you're getting results now, you suck at it. Next time around things may not be as easy. I'm a pushover when it comes to kids."

But just as Scott started counting out the antiquated paper bills, the boy uttered a frightened squeal like that of a hunted rabbit and his overly-large eyes widened with fear as his free hand reached behind him. Surprised, Scott glanced up in time to see a tall shadow behind the boy and the gun slipping from the little thief's hand. Automatic reactions set in fast: Scott grabbed the kid up and dove away from the weapon, fearing it would fire on impact.

"Whoa, easy!" Scott shouted as they rolled together in the dirt. The child was gagging, coughing, and pounding him in the chest with sharply pointed knuckles. Scott pinned the boy's flailing arms and dragged him to his feet. "You're not gonna get sick are you? This is my favorite shirt and—"

"Sorry to break this up," an affable voice called out, "Can I borrow some cash? Running a little short of the mark."

Scott relaxed instantly and the boy shook free of his grasp and ran to a dark corner of the tent away from his former target. "Virg, thought I told you to knock off the guns on the Mainland."

"You did and I did but--."

"Obviously you didn't. You just scared the shit outta that kid."

"Hold up, I didn't—" Virgil paused, eyebrows knit with puzzlement. "Yeah, okay, I put it in his back but it was only to… No, wait a minute, that's not right either—"

"That's my point."

"It's _not_ your point. I mean yes, I get your point, but I didn't use a—"

Miserably defeated, frightened and hungry, the thwarted thief suddenly realized that the two strangers were arguing, and because they were diverted he could get away. He darted towards the entrance…

But at the last minute, just as he had his hand on the tent flap, Virgil calmly kicked the gun aside, collared him, and handed him back to Scott. "You dropped this."

"Thanks." Scott wrapped an arm around the struggling boy's neck and frowned at his brother. "One last time, and this time you've gotta get this: The last thing you or any of us needs is a weapons charge. What in hell were you thinking? Did you just buy it or what?"

Virgil threw up his hands. "Don't have a gun, I left it in the plane. But I do have this." His sudden grin brightened the shadows as he cleverly flipped an object out of his sleeve and into his scarred palm.

Scott eyed it, momentarily speechless, and then burst out laughing. "A chicken bone? You threatened him with a half-eaten drum stick?"

"Got peckish." Virgil glanced down at the boy, now completely limp and thoroughly mortified under Scott's arm. "Don't feel too bad, little guy, happens to the best of us. Scott, look, I've gotta get going. Just need another Benjamin, you good for it?"

"FOTBs?"

"Gordon's hooked one. Need to keep her not-so-smart and not-quite-as-pretty friend entertained while Gordy…." Virgil hesitated, rolled his eyes, and then snorted with exasperation. "While Gordy does his chick polite, pretty much all night—"

"And nothing else." Scott laughed again, "You need the cash for booze, right? 'Cause if you're not drinking you'll go nuts – you just can't shake the way our brother DOESN'T automatically do what we do every time we get over here."

"Yeah, well, okay. So it's a character flaw. Sue me. It's about as exciting as watching a curling tournament.. Warning you, I'll be banging my head against the wall by the time you get there, which means I can't do the flight home 'cause I'll be concussed and—"

"I'm flying it anyway, she's too light on the controls for you! No way in hell am I gonna let you porpoise the family jet all the way home, Gordon'll toss and we're out of our favorite courtesy bags." Scott spared a glance for his captive, laughed at his brother's expression, and handed over his wad of worn-out $100.00 dollar bills. "You get one Benny, no more, no less. I get it back on our next paycheck, right? "

"Oh yeah," Virgil winked sardonically, "Next paycheck, for sure."

Scott lifted an eyebrow, had a sarcastic response all ready to go, but now was not exactly a good time to lasso his Man-About-Town brother in. There was still the kid to see to. "Okay, that's a deal then. Meet ya at Cocoa's in about an hour."

"Yep," Virgil replied cheerfully as he picked through the wad and stuffed the rest into his brother's shirt pocket. He looked down at the kid, ruffled the dusty black hair, and ducked under the tent flap. "See ya in an hour. And seriously, stick to the timeline for me? Thanks."

"Sure, timeline. I'm totally on it." Scott smirked at his retreating brother's shadow and set the boy down in the packed earth of the tent, taking care to scoop up the gun. _Cripes, there's no clip in this thing, no bullets. Figures. _"What in hell is this?" Scott brandished the weapon in front of the boy, "Vintage Bond with no bullets? Why'd you even try? You'd better count yourself damn lucky, 'cause anyone else would've wiped your ass all over this friggin' tent and turned this gun into the local police station for some real hard cash!"

The little thief stared numbly at the gun, then at Scott, and his tiny compressed lips suddenly quivered; before Scott could say more, the kid broke down into harsh, wracking sobs.

"Oh shit. Just show me, okay? Can you? Why'd you do it?"

The kid only cried harder, and Scott remembered that he was speaking English and didn't have his translator with him. Quickly he drew a question mark in the dirt and made the boy look at it. Then, to make sure it was understood, Scott reinforced it with a comical grimace and an exaggerated shrug.

The boy wiped his eyes, even laughed a little with relief, and the next thing Scott knew he was being pulled through the avenue—

And dropped next to a tiny ill-lit plot of ground just outside the main venue and just short of the beach. Laid out on the dirt was an old worn sari, its frayed metallic threads glinting in the torches dotting the beachfront, and sparsely covering the decaying fabric was a line of childlike handmade shell jewelry. Ignored by the tourists on their way to the main market, the over-young vendor was calling out to the festively-garbed passing crowd, but her voice was feeble and she too looked undernourished and in ill health. In both features and dress, she was an exact duplicate of the little thief standing at his side.

_Twins, they're twins. And by the look of things, homeless and parentless too. Ohhhh… crap._

Scott tossed a look towards the town's pier where a gaudily lit hand-painted sign spelled out _Cocoa's Tiki Bar_ in bright fluorescent letters. The music was loud, the crowd was dancing, and the torches lining the establishment were crackling and blazing with enticement and welcome temptations…

And the drinks, he was sure, were flowing like waterfalls; most likely into his favorite brother's mouth.

_There goes the evening plans, dammit—_

_-- No, no… wait a moment. Sure I'll overpay, they need it, and betcha I can sell Virg's services for an hour or two – Should be good for a fund reimbursement or drinks at the least, and considering what he's currently doing I don't think he'll give a shit either way! Ha, he probably won't even remember anything in the morning anyway…_

_And Tin-Tin's birthday is coming up fast. If I do this I'll piss off Alan when I tell her how I got it all, and nothing says 'cool' like watching Alan's face while his girl falls all over me and tells me what a sweet, generous, thoughtful guy I am—_

_Scott Tracy, you are, as always, a very resourceful man!_

Scott grinned, turned back to the sari and waved an imperious arm over the entire lot of jewelry. "I'll buy it all." But as he forked over a hundred dollar bill and looked into the liquid, overly-large eyes watching him from their thin pinched faces, he suffered an unwanted, unfamiliar attack of shame and an even more unpleasant taste of abashed guilt.

_Oh hell, what am I thinking? Cripes._

Scott's grin dissolved to an awkward smile as he watched the girl bend and excitedly line up all of the jewelry on her arm to keep them from tangling together. Her brother was bursting with pride, a happy grin spreading from one dusty ear to the other. The boy turned towards the main avenue and his nostrils subtly flared, and with that visual cue Scott suddenly smelled the thick aroma of cooking meats and vegetables from the night market's food row, and even more enticing, the spice-laden aroma of barbequed pork ribs wafting from _Cocoa's _busy outside grills.

_Oh well. _

"And, ah…" Scott added as he tossed the rest of his bills on the sari and gestured towards the faded gift wrap and ribbon coiled near the girl's bare feet. _Virg better be on his best game tonight or it's gonna end a lot sooner than either of us want. _"I'll pay you extra to wrap it all up for me, too."

A shriek of girlish laughter pealed over the water chased by a man's baritone laugh and hearing it, Scott relaxed and grinned with relish. _Why was I worried? There's no prob, Virg has got it. This should be a blast after all!"_

And with a secret chuckle he accepted his parcels, bowed solemnly to his little suppliers, checked his antique Rolex, and sauntered away over the soft white beach towards his final goal of the night.

_Maybe if I piss Alan off just a little... Yeah, that's it._

_And I can sooo live with that._


End file.
